


Watch and Weight

by caloriebomb



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Curtain Fic, M/M, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 03:18:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5401031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caloriebomb/pseuds/caloriebomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was what “retirement” looked like: an apartment in their old neighborhood in Brooklyn, with big windows and wooden floors. Three bedrooms – one for Bucky, one for Steve, and one for guests, usually Sam or Nat, or very occasionally, Clint. A small but serviceable kitchen. Soft couches. Down comforters. Bucky had expected Steve to be a whirlwind of activity, volunteering with the VA or the fire department or visiting local schools or whatever ex-superheroes did, but to his surprise, Steve showed no inclination towards his usual busy get-shit-done attitude.</p><p>“I'm taking a year,” Steve said, when Bucky asked. “A year before I start thinking about what comes next. I just want to hang out, be a normal guy again, you know? Just for a little while. But if you want to find a job, or –”</p><p>“A year of nothing sounds great,” Bucky said, and Steve grinned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch and Weight

**Author's Note:**

> From my kinky heart to yours, another slow-burning never-ending piece of gluttonous debauchery. This one's for pudgybarnes over on tumblr, and I've tried to incorporate several of their prompts/desires, so let's hope this measures up! (Get it?)
> 
> There's pretty much no one but Bucky and Steve in this, with some token Sam and Nat, and as for where it falls in canon, oh I don't know, sometime after the Winter Soldier when Bucky's pretty much rehabilitated and they've decided to "retire." Basically an excuse to put them in an apartment with lots of take-out places nearby.

Bucky had been watching Steve his whole life. All three of them. 

In his first life, he was watching out for Steve – watching out for would-be bullies in the schoolyard, watching out for the telltale rattle in Steve's chest or the spots of color high on his cheeks that meant he might be running a fever, watching out to make sure Steve was getting enough to eat, was warm enough in winter, was laughing enough, was safe. 

His second life, he watched Steve so he could learn to kill him. The less said about that, the better.

And now, entering his third life, Bucky watched Steve because Steve knew how to be a person in the new world, and Bucky didn't, not quite yet. He didn't know how to turn on the TV – but Steve did. He didn't know how to use the microwave – Steve did. He didn't know what to buy Natasha for her birthday – Steve did. He didn't know how to order pizza over the internet – Steve did. He didn't know which pills to take when he woke up screaming in the night – Steve did. He didn't know how to get Tony to slow down and speak plain English – Steve did. He didn't know if jeans were supposed to be this tight. 

“They are,” said Steve. “They're skinny jeans.”

“Fuck you, too,” said Bucky, eyeing himself in his bedroom mirror. “I know I need to put on weight, but I'm not skinny. Not like you were, Stevie.”

Steve laughed. “For one thing, skinny's not an insult anymore; it's a compliment. For another, it's just the name of the style. Bigger people wear 'em too. Everyone does.”

“Skinny, yourself,” Bucky muttered. He hiked the jeans up over his hipbones and turned to examine himself in profile, tried not to mind what he saw. “Remember when you sent away for that weight-gain kit in high school? The one for skinny broads trying to grow some curves?”

“Don't remind me,” Steve said. “What a waste of dough. Now it's the opposite – curvy girls sending off for pills to make them thinner.”

“A crying shame,” said Bucky, frowning at his reflection; his flat stomach, slender thighs, non-existent ass. Behind him, Steve stood solid and broad. “I always liked a little heft.” 

Steve coughed. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, me too.”

“So do these fit?” Bucky said, a little self-conscious. “Or should I keep the bigger ones?”

“Those look great,” said Steve. “But Doctor Paz did say she'd still like to see you gain ten pounds... so maybe you should keep the next size up.”

“Yeah,” said Bucky. He met Steve's sympathetic gaze in the mirror, then looked away. “I'm gonna get changed, so if you don't mind...”

“Hey,” said Steve. “You'll be back in shape in no time. I promise.”

“Is this how you always felt?” Bucky blurted out. 

“How?”

“Skinny? Weak?”

“You're not weak,” Steve said. “What you've been through... you're the strongest guy I know.”

“Just, I don't know – me like this, you like that... Feels like we've switched places.”

“Well,” said Steve, slowly. “You took care of me all our lives, Buck. Now, it's my turn to take care of you.”

Bucky didn't say anything, and after a moment, Steve said, “I'm going to call for take-out. Any requests?”

“Lo mein,” said Bucky. “Lots of it.”

“Done,” said Steve, and left Bucky alone with his reflection. 

+

This was what “retirement” looked like: an apartment in their old neighborhood in Brooklyn, with big windows and wooden floors. Three bedrooms – one for Bucky, one for Steve, and one for guests, usually Sam or Nat, or very occasionally, Clint. A small but serviceable kitchen. Soft couches. Down comforters. Bucky had expected Steve to be a whirlwind of activity, volunteering with the VA or the fire department or visiting local schools or whatever ex-superheroes did, but to his surprise, Steve showed no inclination towards his usual busy get-shit-done attitude.

“I'm taking a year,” Steve said, when Bucky asked. “A year before I start thinking about what comes next. I just want to hang out, be a normal guy again, you know? Just for a little while. But if you want to find a job, or –”

“A year of nothing sounds great,” Bucky said, and Steve grinned. 

They moved in in September, and quickly fell into a routine. Most mornings they'd walk the three blocks to their favorite cafe, where Steve would eat a plain croissant and a small cappuccino and Bucky would have a chocolate chip muffin, two strawberry danishes, and a 20 ounce mocha with extra whip. Then, weather permitting, they'd explore their neighborhood on foot, wandering slowly through the once-familiar streets, re-learning the new map of their lives. They went to the movies and joined the library and sat on park benches to marvel at the latest fashions (grey hair on teenagers! Brassieres instead of blouses! Tattoos everywhere!). They stopped at food trucks and sampled falafel, tacos, kebabs. They ducked into restaurants for steaming bowls of pho or piles of piroshki or heaping plates of oily pasta. They discovered General Tso's chicken and Lamb Tikka Masala. 

“You weren't kidding about putting that weight back on,” Steve said in awe, their second week. They'd had lunch not an hour ago and already Bucky was stopping to buy an Italian sausage with fried onions. 

“Nope,” Bucky said, through a bready mouthful. He swallowed with some difficulty and said, “Skinny jeans, my ass.”

“You're already starting to fill them out,” Steve said. 

“You think?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, and cleared his throat. “Bet you've put on five pounds just since we moved in.”

“Well,” Bucky said, ripping off another enormous bite. “Everyone needs a hobby, right?”

+

Eating wasn't his only hobby, of course. Watching Steve was still number one. And Bucky was noticing some very interesting things. He watched, with growing curiosity, the people Steve watched, and it wasn't entirely who he'd expected. Yes, Steve's blue eyes were still drawn helplessly to any curvy brunette who sashayed past, but for the first time Bucky noticed it wasn't always women who caught Steve's attention. Steve was subtler about it, just a flick of his eyes, a slight tensing of his neck as he turned his head ever-so-slightly, but Bucky was nearly 100% certain he was looking at men, too. Very specific men. Full-figured, dark-haired men. He could see Steve eyeing them hungrily from behind his sunglasses, men with broad shoulders and thick biceps and chunky thighs, tight t-shirts or button-ups straining across their generous middles, men with big smiles and even bigger lovehandles, men with strong muscles hidden by soft fat – men. 

Bucky had always been an equal-opportunity lover, himself, but it wasn't something he'd ever discussed with Steve. It was maybe one of the only secrets he'd kept, how before the war he'd go out at night to certain secret clubs, looking for strong hands, stubble, a different taste than that of lipstick. And during the war – well, he'd never had a lack of willing partners to share his bedroll. He liked women, and he liked men. Women, however, had the advantage of being legal, and he'd never been what you might call romantic with men. When he pictured growing old with someone, it was always with a gal. And with Steve, of course, but that was different. 

(Was it?)

Another thing Bucky'd never tell Steve: these days, nothing got him going. Mentally, he could appreciate a pretty face and a nice body, but his nether parts were absolutely non-responsive and all his efforts at, ahem, self-stimulation, had been fruitless and embarrassing. 

Steve had always been closemouthed about women, even the ones Bucky knew for a fact he was sweet on, and it stood to reason he'd be even quieter if he was thinking about boys. Bucky himself, who was mouthy beyond reason when it came to broads, was silent on the subject of his own preferences, so he couldn't, in a million years, see how he might bring it up with Steve now. Even though he knew that times had changed. Even though he regularly saw men walking hand-in-hand and even kissing, in broad daylight, in the middle of a busy sidewalk.

So he kept his suspicions to himself. But he kept watching. 

And eating. Steve was right – he was quickly adding back the weight he'd lost, and then some. It surprised him, how immensely satisfying it was to watch the numbers on the scale tick upwards, to feel the difference as his once too-big jeans began to fit around his waist. He wasn't feeling so pathetically frail anymore, and the cause-effect of eating-gaining was so straightforward and simple it felt like a gift. 

So little had been easy in his life so far – but it was easy, to wolf down his pastries in the morning and then tuck into a bag of honeyed peanuts as they walked through the park. A Snickers bar before lunch; an ice-cream cone afterwards. He'd use his new microwave skills to melt a blanket of cheddar over a bowl of chips, then hunker down to watch Steve play video games in the late afternoon, laughing at how Steve's tongue would poke between his teeth in concentration, like it'd been doing since he was three years old. He'd pound burritos or pizza or spaghetti at dinnertime, then they'd put on a movie and he'd eat Double Stuff Oreos or cake and pie from the bakery across the street. 

Easy, except for the pain that came sometimes, the cramped fullness that would press against his ribs and make him sleepy, sluggish, disinclined to move. 

“Stevie, let's sit,” he'd beg, and they'd plop down on a bench to watch the passers-by, Bucky's stomach gurgling as he painstakingly chewed a pair of hot churros. 

“There's no rush,” Steve said, the night before Bucky's check-up. It was nearly midnight and Bucky was sitting at their little kitchen table, dunking cold pizza into ranch dressing with tired determination. “Doctor Paz isn't going to punish you if you haven't hit the ten-pound mark yet. It's only been a month or so.”

“You don't think I hit it?” Bucky said, looking down at himself. He was still thin, but his ribs had disappeared, finally, and his once-big “skinny jeans” now fit him perfectly. 

“No no,” Steve said, “I think you have, actually, which is – uh, really impressive – so you can slow down, if you want. Take a break.”

“Do I look like I need a break?” Bucky said, and stuffed a crust of pizza into his mouth.

“You look full,” Steve said. 

“Well, yeah,” Bucky said, and burped gently. “I am. No pain, no gain, buddy.”

“Right,” Steve said, a little doubtfully, but Bucky could see that he was trying not to smile.

+

The next morning, Doctor Paz nodded approvingly when he stepped off the scale. “Twelve pounds!” she said. “Excellent. You're right where we want you.”

“Great,” Bucky said, but felt obscurely disappointed. Now what was he supposed to work towards? A year of inactivity was all very well and good, but Bucky had been in action nonstop for seventy years – even if he didn't remember all of it, his body did, and he could feel a restlessness begin creeping through his bones. But that was good for him, he figured – he had to learn to be still, to be without a goal, to give Steve his year of nothing. 

That night they went to a nearby diner, and Bucky ordered a smorgasbord of food out of habit, his mouth salivating as he gave his order: coke, chocolate milkshake, mozzarella sticks, a double bacon cheeseburger and fries, and a side of chili with queso. His stomach was rumbling in eager anticipation while Steve ordered the Cajun Chicken sandwich. 

“Thought you made goal weight?” Steve said. 

“I did,” said Bucky, slurping his milkshake. “Just hungry, I guess.”

He wasn't hungry by the time he'd licked the last slick of cheese off his metal fingers – quite the opposite. He was a little short of breath and his stomach felt stretched tight, so full and heavy it was almost a shock to reach down and feel how flat it still was. He could feel the little bulge of food bowing out his abs, but there was no give to the taut skin, none of the softness he'd had before the war. He missed that. Missed being thick, throwing his weight around. 

He chugged the rest of his soda just to feel his stomach push out that little bit further, and was struck suddenly by a memory: himself in the bathroom at thirteen or so, jerking off around the plush of a pillow he'd shoved up underneath his shirt. He remembered coming, one hand on his fake gut, biting his lip so his sister in the next room wouldn't hear him groan. The pillow straining his buttons. The wave of pure pleasure. 

The sense-memory was so strong he dropped his empty soda cup with a rattle of ice, and looked up to find Steve looking at him in concern.

“You okay?” Steve said.

“Brain freeze,” Bucky lied. Already the image was fading, leaving a vague sense of arousal in its wake. His cheeks were hot. He felt his dick stirring in his skinny jeans, three eager twitches before it settled. 

He was used to being bombarded by memories – although he'd regained his sense of “self,” more or less, there were still big gaps missing from the past seventy years, chunks of white fuzz from being constantly brainwashed and re-set. But something about this memory felt... buried. Not by HYDRA. By Bucky himself. 

And – more importantly – this was the closest he'd come to an erection since being de-programmed. 

Tentatively, he touched his sore, slim stomach, let his muscles relax completely and push out to their full convexity, trying to reclaim some of the memory. But all he felt was pain. 

“You must be full,” Steve said, still looking at him. Looking at his hand splayed over his t-shirt covered belly. Hastily, Bucky let go of himself. 

“And how,” he said. 

“Too full for cannoli?” Steve said. “There's this place around the corner I've been dying to check out...”

For some reason, this made Bucky's heart beat a little faster, his skin flaming a little hotter. “Hell no,” he said, though the answer was, in fact, yes. “Bet I can eat more than you.”

“Oh, you're on,” said Steve. 

+

The next night, Steve went out for drinks with Sam and Bucky stayed behind.

“Just not feeling it,” he said, when Steve tried to wheedle him out, and Steve, bless him, didn't push it.

Bucky was feeling it, actually, though in a different way. He had an experiment he wanted to try. As soon as Steve had locked the door behind him and his heavy footsteps had faded down the hallway, Bucky went into his bedroom and – feeling nothing short of ridiculous – pushed a pillow up beneath his t-shirt. He patted the softness of it, felt how squishy it was beneath his shirt, and reached down to give himself an exploratory, hopeful squeeze.

Nothing. 

He got up from the bed, took a few steps. Still nothing. No flash of arousal, no tingling, no hint that his dick was even there. 

Feeling stupid and not a little disappointed, he yanked the pillow out and threw it back on the bed. 

“Forget it, Barnes,” he said aloud. “Not gonna happen.” He stared angrily at his reflection in the mirror, his slim frame, twiggy wrists, sharp cheekbones, his own big, reproachful eyes. “You hear me, skinny?” he said. “No one's getting lucky tonight, least of all you. Just give up!”

In the kitchen, he stuck a frozen pepperoni pizza in the microwave then perched at the counter in front of Steve's closed laptop and wished he was tucked next to Steve in a cozy bar right at this minute, laughing at Sam's jokes and stuffing fistfuls of fries in his mouth. They were at a place in Williamsburg that had some of the best nachos Bucky'd had yet, and he could be eating those nachos right now, if it weren't for –

Actually, speaking of nachos... Nachos would make him feel better for sure. And there was a different experiment he'd been wanting to try, a very different one, sure, but why not take advantage of his solitude?

He flipped open Steve's computer, and just a few minutes later – like magic – he'd ordered a 2-liter of Coke and the Family-Style Volcano Nachos from a place down the street. Twenty minutes, they said – enough time to pick a movie on Netflix and get himself settled on the couch with his little pepperoni pizza as the perfect appetizer. 

He'd just pushed the last saucy triangle into his mouth when the door rang, and he signed for the food eagerly, didn't even bother getting plates or forks, just took the heavy bag into the living room and popped the lid of the huge tin container, nearly as big as a lasagna pan. 

His eyes met with a veritable mountain of chips, cheese, sour cream, guacamole, beef and vegetables, and he crunched down on the first wonderful mouthful as he pressed play with his flesh hand. 

This dish was called Family-Style for a reason – it could easily have fed a family of four, plus a dinner guest. It wasn't meant for one person to eat by himself, and Bucky knew that – in fact, knowing it only made this more fun. He'd always wanted to try demolishing it by himself, and this was as good a time as any to attempt it. 

By the time he was halfway through the nachos, the skin of his stomach was pulsing in stretched-out protest, and he was hunched over the table, wheezing a little as he dipped a cheesy chip into a puddle of sour cream, chasing an olive with his fingertips. He paused to slurp some Coke, hoping the carbonation might help clear out some room, and sure enough a moment later he worked up a deep, brassy belch that felt immediately better. For a second. 

“Jesus,” he said, and slumped backwards on the couch, stretching out his stomach. On-screen, the animated blonde girl was making a huge castle out of ice and singing about letting go, and he watched in disbelief as she ran this way and that, waving her arms around with an energy that left him exhausted just watching it. “Slow down,” he begged her, and fuck it, moved the tin of nachos from the coffee table to his lap. It was easier to eat like this, mostly-reclining instead of bent over, and he got through another fourth of them this way, until the Coke was all gone and there was just a small pile left in one corner. 

The movie ended, and Bucky was plunged into a calm, still silence, the glow of the TV lighting up the grease he'd managed to get streaked all the way up his wrists. God, he was full. So full it hurt. So stretched out. He felt like a beached whale, and he could really see the bloat from his meal pushing out his belly, a small curve beneath his t-shirt that made him think of the pillow again, the strange memory, his failed experiment. If that pillow were his real stomach, it wouldn't have been so light – it'd be heavy, full of food, warm and solid and soft but not pillow-soft, no, skin-soft; firm and plump with some bouncy give to it, and it would be all him, not a pillow, it would be all him, stuffed and big and fat...

Twitch, went his dick. Zing. 

Bucky barely dared to move. He looked down at his lap, past the small food-baby of his stomach. He thought about how full he'd have to be to not be able to even see his lap, how stuffed, how his gut would be so swollen and filled and heavy and uncomfortable, and he felt his fullness pressing hard at him, stretching him out, like a hint of what could be, so full he could hardly breathe, he was such a pig, such a glutton, so fat and HALLELUJAH HE WAS HARD. 

Breathing fast, he unzipped his jeans and hitched his hips so he could push his pants down. The movement made his stomach gurgle unhappily, and for some reason that turned him on even more. With his flesh hand he cradled his cock and felt a true surge of real sensation as he began to stroke it. Stroke, stroke, he worked himself going on pure muscle memory, up the shaft, cupping the head, squeezing, teasing, a twist here, a buck of his hips, and just as he started to come he reached out with his metal arm and shoved a huge handful of nachos into his mouth, chewed and chewed and nearly choked as he climaxed, a full-body wave that made his eyes roll back in his head and his limbs go totally boneless, his nacho-stuffed mouth hanging open as he moaned. 

He came back to himself, finally, covered in cum and nacho grease, his body still humming pleasantly over the stunned grumble of his aching stomach. 

“What. The fuck. Was that?” he asked his dick, smug and flaccid and glistening. Then, “You know what, I don't care. Jesus Mary and Joseph that was good.”

He gave himself a few more minutes to lie there, listlessly finishing off the rest of the nachos, before he hoisted himself to his feet to clean up before Steve came home. The couch looked okay, thank god, but Bucky himself was a disgusting mess. And god he was full. He moved around slowly, hunched over his swollen stomach, letting out a few wet, miserable burps. He was so full he was a little dizzy, so once he'd tidied up, he went straight into his bedroom and onto his bed, stripping off his dirtied clothes and lying naked on top of his covers. He drummed his fingers on his challenged stomach, tried not to be sick, and wondered when he would have the chance to do this again. 

As soon as fucking possible, he hoped.

+

Bucky didn't like keeping secrets from Steve, as a rule. But there were some things a fella didn't come out and tell his best friend. Like, “Hey Stevie, you mind clearing out for a while so I can make myself sick on pizza in order to achieve orgasm?” So he had to be sneaky. 

During the day, he unobtrusively made sure to keep himself as full as possible, building on that stretched-tight feeling until he and Steve said good night and went off to their separate rooms. Start off with a big breakfast, snack all day, have a big lunch, then cap it off with an enormous dinner. Enormous enough to make Steve raise his eyebrows, but not quite big enough to seem suspicious. Steve was used to Bucky's eating habits, anyway, since he'd been so intent on getting back to goal weight, and took it more or less in stride. 

“You're still hungry?” he'd say, mildly, as Bucky stopped for a donut after putting away a plate of fried eggs and sausage and hash browns. 

“Always,” said Bucky, stifling the uncomfortable burp that might prove the opposite.

Or, “Don't you want to save room for dessert?” after Bucky wheezed his way through the last bite of steak fettuccine alfredo, after his appetizer of fried ravioli and three refills of the bread basket. 

“I am saving room,” Bucky panted, and carefully undid his pants button beneath the table. 

The downside to this was, Bucky rode the edge of arousal all day long. Which was also an upside, depending on how you looked at it. The biggest upside was, if Bucky played it right, he'd still be full when he went into his bedroom. Full and sore and lethargic from a day of stuffing himself; that's when the fun began. 

Beneath his bed, Bucky was slowly amassing a beautiful collection of snacks. Every time he left the house, he bought new additions and lovingly stored them. Jars of creamy peanut butter, Reese's cups, Snickers bars, Little Debbie's cakes, Entenman's danishes, Twinkies, Devil Dogs, Slim Jims, wrapped cheese sticks, Doritos, potato chips, Fritos... and each night, already primed from his full day, he'd eat and eat until he reached that pinnacle of pain, the feeling that his stomach was pushed as far as it could go, was huge and heavy and growing. As his stomach swelled, so did his cock. It was like they were one organ, both of them alive with sensation, pain and pleasure mingled gloriously amidst chip crumbs and powdered sugar. 

Once Sunday night he came three times, eating steadily in a haze of gassy fullness, and he didn't get to sleep until morning light was peeking from behind his curtains. He ended up sleeping until noon, woke up to a bloated, gurgling stomach, his skin sensitive to the rough touch of his clothing, his jaw aching from chewing. 

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Steve said as Bucky stumbled bleary-eyed from his bedroom. Steve, of course, had been up for hours already. 

Bucky grunted his hello and ambled over to pour himself a cup of coffee, heavily doctored with cream and sugar. He had a bad stomach ache and a mild touch of heartburn, and even the soft sweatpants he wore felt painful on his tender waist. He let out a long, soft fart, then glanced at Steve in embarrassment, but Steve hadn't noticed. He was rummaging around in the fridge.

“You hungry?” Steve said. 

Ugh. No. “Yeah,” Bucky said. “Starved.”

“Well, sit,” said Steve. “I'll make pancakes.”

Bucky ate twelve of them, piled high with whipped cream and soaked in syrup and butter, plus a half pound of bacon. He knew he was over-doing it, could feel Steve's eyes on him, but the food actually was soothing his overtaxed belly, rounding out all the painful gassy crevices. At least that's how it felt. He gulped his chocolate milk, settling into the now-familiar feeling of being stuffed to the gills, and looked up to smile his thanks at Steve, but Steve wasn't looking at his face. He was looking at his bloated stomach, at where his t-shirt was stretching just a little over the curve of it. He didn't notice Bucky watching him. His eyes were fixed and a little glassy, and with a jolt of shock, Bucky realized he thought he knew that look. 

Desire?

Then a rattling burp shook Bucky's body, and by the time he'd recovered, the look was off Steve's face as if it'd never been there. He was frowning, now, watching as Bucky poured himself a third glass of chocolate milk and swallowed it down with painful, audible gulps. 

“Easy,” said Steve. “You'll give yourself a stomachache.”

Bucky nearly laughed at this. These days, his life was a perpetual stomachache. 

“Good pancakes, Stevie,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I've got to go upstate in an hour,” Steve said. “Just for the day. Nat needs a hand with something, nothing dangerous, just some muscle. You want to come?”

“Nah,” said Bucky, his heart kicking in anticipation, because he'd still be plenty full in an hour, and could probably get himself over the edge with just another couple glasses of milk. It'd be a great start to the week. 

“She'll come back with me around seven and we can all have dinner,” Steve said.

“Sounds great,” Bucky said, hardly hearing him. 

It was a day of pure, unbridled gluttony. He snacked and jerked off all day long, finished the entire gallon of chocolate milk and ordered a pizza and breadsticks for a late lunch around four pm. His stomach was so tight it was hard, no give to it whatsoever, and he eventually had to spend a few hours napping on the couch, drinking only water while his gut quieted down a bit. His digestion was noisy, as if enraged at him for making it work so hard, and the grumble and gurgle of it lulled him as he slept, his bare hand splayed under his t-shirt across the hot, hurting dome of his belly. 

He woke to darkness, and the sound of the key in the lock. 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve said, flicking on the light. “Sorry we're late. Were you napping?”

“Just dozed off,” Bucky said, pushing himself up, his stomach letting out a very audible groan of protest. 

“Ah, the life of a retired soldier,” Nat said teasingly as he bent to wrap her in a hug, then stepped back to give him an amused, appraising look. “Steve was right. You are getting comfortable.”

“Oh, I'll put on real clothes before we go out,” Bucky said, tugging on his t-shirt. 

“Not exactly what I meant,” said Nat.

Steve was blushing furiously, for some reason. “Nat,” he said, “why don't you --”

“I'm taking you to a Russian place nearby,” Nat said to Bucky. “They have the biggest portions in New York. Steve says you've been hungry lately.”

Steve glanced quickly at Bucky, then relaxed when he saw Bucky grinning.

“I have been hungry lately,” Bucky said. “And I'm hungry now.”

He squeezed on a pair of black jeans, noting with some surprise how much effort it took to close the flaps, and how there was a soft bulge of stomach rolling over the too-tight waistband. God, this was uncomfortable. He couldn't eat in this. He rooted around his dresser and found a safety pin, unzipped his jeans with a huff of relief and pinned the top so he had a good extra inch of give. Still not exactly comfortable, but better. He hid it with a long black t-shirt and a grey button-up; both of which also felt a little smaller than he remembered, pulling just a bit around his shoulders, and when he looked in the mirror he could see the faint outline of his stomach pushing up against the material. 

He grinned at himself as he smoothed a hand down his belly, though his smile faded as a he considered what he'd eaten that day. The tightness of his clothing was probably just bloat, he thought, and realized he was disappointed. 

He perked up, though, to think how much tighter they would be after Nat's promised portions. 

Turns out, he didn't even have a chance to jerk off that night. Nat and Steve nearly had to roll him home, he was so full. They'd all been drinking, too, in high spirits, and the combination of the booze and the frankly overzealous amounts of beef and cabbage and dumplings Bucky had shoved down his throat was almost too much for him. He unabashedly cradled his stomach as they walked home, hiccuping and burping in painful jerks, wincing as his belly jumped with the force of it. 

“Night, Nat,” he said, his voice strained from fullness as he hugged her at the door. “Good to see you.”

“I hope to see more of you, soon,” Nat said, and patted him on his aching side, then kissed his cheek. 

Bucky trundled over to the couch as Steve said his goodbyes, and dropped down heavily, one hand steadying his churning gut, eyes closed. He listened to Nat close the door, listened to Steve pad over and stand in front of him.

“You all right?” Steve said.

“Full,” Bucky said, and as if to illustrate his point, he hissed an airy belch. “Fuck.”

“I can see that,” Steve said. There was something strange in his voice, a little higher-pitched than normal, but when Bucky opened his eyes Steve just looked like his normal, half-amused, half-worried self. “Do you want a heat pack? To put on your, um, your stomach?”

“That would be amazing,” Bucky breathed. 

He fell asleep on the couch, hot water bottle warming his stuffed stomach, his jeans unpinned, his breathing labored, his dick half-hard and his dreams full of sugar. 

+

He tried not to think too hard about what he was doing. Tried not to wonder why he could only come when he was stuffed to the gills with food, so stuffed it hurt. If he thought too hard about it, he'd have to start wondering why he liked the pain of it; would have to wonder whether he could continue on in this vein; would have to ask himself what, exactly, he thought would happen eating three times the advised amount of calories a day; would have to confront parts of his psyche he just didn't want to face, not yet. 

So for now, he just let himself do what felt good. He was in control of his own body after so many years of servitude and torture, in control of how he felt and how he looked, and that was a gift. Okay, so he liked to overeat, got off on it. Okay, so he also got off on the idea of getting bigger, heavier, bulkier, taking up more space, moving slower. So what? He was happy. Happier than he could remember being in a long, long time. 

Soon, he was safety-pinning all his jeans. He stared at himself in the mirror, looking for changes, but aside from the food-filled bulge of his stomach, he didn't think he was looking much different. Sure, he'd probably gained a little weight, but most of this was bloat and food – it wasn't sticking. He didn't think, anyway. He was so full all the time it was hard to tell anymore what was temporary. Some of it had to be him, right? He didn't know how he felt about it, exactly, and this, too, he tried not to think too hard about. It was hard to ignore the evidence, though, when even safety pins didn't quite do the trick and he had to pull on his sweatpants. He stared in the mirror, cataloguing the way his t-shirt was beginning to ride the crest of his belly, beginning to wrinkle and ride up, stretching on his (fuller?) sides. He patted his stomach, ran his knuckles up and down the slight curve of it. 

“First you're freaked about being too skinny, now you're freaked about gaining five pounds?” he said. “Come on, Barnes.”

After a minute's thought, he took down the full length mirror and turned it to face the wall. He didn't want to stress about this. He was happy, and healthy, and hungry, and if his fantasies were bleeding into his real life, well, that was the price he'd have to pay. He didn't have to obsess over the results, though. He'd do his hair in the bathroom mirror and not worry about his body. 

It wasn't his imagination, though. He was definitely bigger. 

Steve apparently agreed.

“You think?” was Steve's reply, when Bucky announced that he needed new pants.

“All my jeans are too tight,” Bucky clarified.

“No shit,” Steve said, and Bucky couldn't help but flush in pleasure. Steve misread the flush, however, and immediately tripped over his words trying to take it back. “I only mean, well, you know, you were wearing a really small size, and it's good you've grown out of them, it's definitely good, you're getting healthier, you're getting big—I mean, better, you --”

“Will you help me get 'em online?” Bucky said. “I want these exact ones again.”

“Of course,” Steve said. “Of course I'll help you. Uh – we can do it on my phone over breakfast at the diner?”

“Sounds great,” Bucky beamed. 

At the diner, Bucky watched Steve watch their waiter, a dark-haired young guy with a cleft chin and sweet pink lips, someone who wouldn't have looked out of place on the big screen if it weren't for the thirty-odd extra pounds he was carrying. His uniform looked like it'd fit him at one point, but now was too tight in all the wrong (right) places. Tight on his ass, on his belly, around his soft arms. Steve smiled almost nervously at everything the guy said, laughed too hard at his weak waiter-jokes, and his eyes followed him as he walked to and from their table. 

Bucky buried his face in his breakfast, ate fried chicken and waffles until he was too full to feel anything else (like jealousy). 

“More gravy,” Bucky snapped at the waiter. “More maple syrup. Extra butter. Side of bacon.”

He was stifling agonized belches behind one fist when the waiter dropped off their check, tried not to glower as Steve stammered out his thanks and turned that beautiful good-boy grin on the undeserving young man. 

Whatever. Bucky didn't care. 

(Did he?)

(He didn't!)

“I'm so full,” Bucky whined as they walked home in the cold November wind, trying to reclaim Steve's attention. 

“I love that diner,” Steve said happily.

“Ugh, I've got waffles up to my eyebrows.”

“People are so nice there.”

“Hang on, I'm gonna grab a hot dog.”

That got Steve's attention. “You're kidding.”

“A footlong with chili,” Bucky said to the guy at the food truck. “Thanks.”

“Is this happening?” Steve said, as Bucky dug a crumpled bill out of his pocket. 

Bucky took a huge, defiant bite. His stomach was churning and aching, his sides were stretched, his lungs compressed, and his mouth was tired from chewing waffles, but Steve was staring at him, his full attention all for Bucky. Bucky pushed the hot dog into his mouth again, chewed and swallowed with some difficulty and nearly gagged on his next huge bite. He choked it down, inch by painful inch, panting around it as he tried to breathe through the fullness, and Steve just stared, wide-eyed. They were in the middle of a busy sidewalk, people rushing by huddled into their coats, car horns honking, buses hissing, but neither of them moved while Bucky finished the hot dog and wiped chili from his lips, then licked his fingers free of ketchup. 

“Delicious,” said Bucky, and hiccuped, couldn't stop the follow-up groan as his stomach lurched painfully. 

“Jesus,” Steve said. He was smiling a little, involuntarily, a hectic, excited smile, and Bucky was smiling back, his stomach aching as it pressed roundly against his t-shirt, his breath coming short, his mouth hanging open a little, but smiling. A weird energy was jumping between them, a tangible shockwave that built, and built, and built.

Then they were both laughing. Unstoppable, hysterical, tension-breaking laughter that left Bucky sweating and pale. 

“Oh god,” Bucky wheezed, “stop it, I'm too full, stop it Stevie, I'm gonna yak.”

“You're crazy,” Steve giggled, “you're outta your mind, Buck.”

“Ugh, seriously,” Bucky panted, his laughter clenching his poor abs, “I need to sit down.”

They sat down on a bench, still chuckling, Bucky's metal hand snaking up under his coat and pressing his cold fingers into the swollen burble of his belly. He caught his breath, worked up a few round burps while their laughter simmered, then stopped, leaving a strange silence in its wake. 

Steve's phone trilled cheerily, and Steve said, looking down, “The pants already shipped! They'll be here Thursday.”

“Urrrp,” said Bucky.

“I got you a few different sizes,” Steve said. “So you'll have to try them on.”

“Euuurrrrp,” said Bucky, tasting chili. Gross.

“Guess it'll have to be sweatpants for a couple days,” Steve said. 

“Hirrup,” said Bucky.

+

Steve was in hell. Or heaven? No, definitely hell. A special hell reserved for the kind of guy who jerked himself raw every night to the image of his best friend eating an entire box of pizza rolls in one sitting. He was sick, he was fucked-up, he was dirty, he was wrong, and oh god he was having the greatest orgasms of his life. 

Bucky, thank god, was oblivious. He didn't seem to notice Steve's fascination, and he honestly didn't seem to notice how quickly he was gaining weight. He'd come yawning into the kitchen in the morning, his hair pulled back in a ponytail that showed off the softening of his chin, and Steve would try not to watch the way his brand new jeans were already digging into his sides, how his t-shirt was tight around the outline of his navel and rode up as he reached into the fridge. How he'd fiddle absentmindedly with his waistband, tugging it down with one hand, then tugging it up, trying to get comfortable as he chugged a couple glasses of chocolate milk. How he'd thunk down into a chair, his ass spreading, his belly rounding sweetly and noticeably as he said, “Where to for breakfast, Stevie?”

Steve tried not to watch as Bucky inhaled mountains of food at every meal: whole pizzas gone along with several bowls of ice cream; pancakes and eggs and homefries and bacon; footlong hoagies and cheesesteaks the size of Steve's arm; two orders of sweet and sour chicken plus eggrolls and scallion pancakes and cartons of white rice. He tried not to pay attention as Bucky burped and groaned unself-consciously, tried not to comment when Bucky started sweating, his head propped up exhaustedly in one hand as he kept spooning cake into his mouth after an enormous dinner.

Steve tried not to watch, really he did. But god, it was like all his fantasies come to life. 

He kept wondering, should he be worried? Should he say something? But Bucky seemed so cheerful, so content, Steve figured he was just enjoying having power over himself again, able to choose what to eat and when and how much. (So much.) Steve had never been able to deny Bucky what he wanted, and even less so now. 

Besides, Bucky was quick to acknowledge his increased appetite; he joked about it, and grinned when Steve ribbed him gently. The eating was fair conversational game, at least – but the effects? Steve didn't know. 

All he knew was, it was driving him crazy, in every way. 

One snowy afternoon, they spent the morning cooped up together in cozy companionship, Steve playing video games (his guilty pleasure) while Bucky read in the armchair. He'd made himself a couple bacon grilled cheeses, and Steve watched out of the corner of his eye while Bucky ate them quickly and neatly, turning pages with his greasy fingers and licking crumbs from his lips. When the two sandwiches were finished, Bucky put his book down and disappeared into the kitchen, and Steve smelled the unmistakable savory odor of cooking bacon. Bucky came back a while later with two more grilled cheeses, plus a big bowl of Doritos. He settled again into the armchair, leaning back and running a thumb around the waistband of his sweatpants like they were irritating him, and Steve watched as his shirt climbed up and revealed a tantalizing strip of bare, bloated belly. He crunched a handful of Doritos before starting in on his grilled cheese, and Steve watched his stomach swell ever-so-slightly further outwards as he finished the third and then fourth sandwich, and demolished the bowl of chips. He was flushed by the time he was done, clearly full, and he used the heel of his flesh hand to rub soothing circles on his belly while he read, his shirt lifting and falling over the tight roundness of it, lips moving along with the words. Every so often the shirt lifted in such a way that Steve could see the waistband of his sweats folded down beneath the beginnings of a gut, his sides bowing subtly outwards, too, a hint of a roll. 

Steve found himself saying, “Was thinking of running across the street for a cupcake or something. You interested?”

“Sure,” Bucky hiccuped, as if he wasn't already swollen from breakfast and his four-sandwich lunch. “Just give me a few minutes.”

“I'll go alone, I don't mind,” said Steve. “What do you want?”

“Surprise me,” Bucky said, his eyes heavy-lidded, fingers digging into his stomach.

Steve came back with a coconut cream pie, and without thinking too hard about it, he served Bucky an enormous piece, nearly a fourth of the entire thing. Bucky didn't even blink, just put down his book and pulled the plate onto his lap and began stuffing eager forkfuls into his mouth. Steve could hear his heavy breathing, could hear him squirm a little as he tried to find a more comfy position, but he didn't look. Didn't look until he heard the last scrape of Bucky's fork on the empty plate, and a series of stiff little burps, followed by the whoosh of a difficult breath. Then – then he looked.

Bucky's metal hand was cupping his stomach gently, thumb moving slow, soothing circles over his belly button, which was clearly visible through the stretched cloth of his t-shirt. His stomach was round and poking out over his waistband, and his chin was squishy, his cheeks fuller. He'd always been a little soft, but he was a little bigger now than he'd been before the war, Steve thought – a little bigger, and differently-shaped, too. Pre-war Bucky had been smoothed in a soft layer of fat like an otter, had a few little rolls when he sat down, but this Bucky was growing out around his muscles, round and firm. His turgid stomach pushed out solidly in front of him, instead of folding like pre-war Bucky's had done, and Steve had a sudden, desperate urge to see it bare. He hadn't seen Bucky shirtless since summer, when he'd been so thin. 

“Think I'm gonna go take a nap,” Bucky said, interrupting Steve's reverie. 

“Sure,” Steve said, “cool, yeah, I'm just gonna --” he waved his game controller, trying to push down the blush that was clawing its way to his cheeks. 

Bucky pushed himself to his feet, his face wrinkling in discomfort as he got vertical, but instead of trudging into his room, he detoured into the kitchen, and Steve's jaw nearly unhinged when he saw he'd helped himself to another enormous piece of pie, easily as huge as the first one.

“Pre-nap snack,” Bucky grunted, eyes on the floor, and a moment later he'd disappeared into his room.

Steve, god help him, abandoned all pretense of playing the video game, and stole off to his own room, where he had his hand around his cock almost immediately, his eyes slammed shut as he imagined Bucky across the hall, pink mouth wrapped around the pie fork, his strained, too-full breaths, that stomach getting even rounder as he ate. He felt guilty as hell for sexualizing Bucky this way – Bucky, who was probably slipping into a food-coma right as Steve spilled all over his fist. Bucky, so innocent.

+

In the next room, Bucky fell asleep smeared in cum and coconut cream.

+

Somehow, Bucky's new pants weren't as comfortable as they'd been a month ago. Or were they? They were skinny jeans, after all, so they were supposed to be tight, and probably he'd just forgotten how tight they'd been at the beginning. Maybe he still wasn't used to this new style. Or maybe Steve shrank them in the wash. 

Or maybe he'd put on weight. 

He grimaced, lying flat on his back as he sucked in his stomach and tried to get the button to close. Finally it caught and he sat up stiffly, tried to hike the jeans up his hips so his (softer?) sides wouldn't spill over them, but then gave up and tugged the pants down lower, instead, letting them sit under the curve of his belly. And it was a curve. Even without a mirror he could feel that. He pulled down his shirt, which seemed to have gotten shorter, and gave one of his pecs an experimental squeeze. It felt a little chubbier, there was no denying it.

And no denying the interest his dick showed in the idea, either. 

He pulled on a sweatshirt, and even that felt a little tight, but at least he thought it did a good job of hiding his poor, strained waistband. He tucked his hair into a bun and shuffled out into the living room, wishing he was wearing sweatpants or boxers or better yet, nothing at all. 

There sat Steve, perfectly muscled and trim, like a Greek statue come to life.

“Morning,” he said. “Sam just texted to see if we want to meet him for brunch around noon. What do you think?”

“Sounds great,” Bucky said. “What time is it now?”

“A little before ten,” Steve said, reaching for his phone to text Sam back. “Figure we'll get ready to go in about an hour and a half. Want me to make you an egg sandwich, tide you over until then?”

Bucky had already opened his mouth to say yes, but then thought better of it. It wouldn't kill him to ease up a little. He could still come home at night and cram his face full and get off no problem; it didn't have to be an all-day thing, for chrissakes. So he said, “Nah, I'm good.”

Steve looked surprised, and something else – disappointed? “Oh,” he said. “Sure.”

It'd been months since Bucky had let his stomach be empty, and he didn't like the sensation. It grumbled and pinched with hunger, and after a half hour or so he even felt a little nauseous. Poor stomach; it didn't understand why Bucky was doing this. Bucky sat reading a magazine in the living room, feeling unpleasantly sliced in half by his too-tight jeans, and tried not to think about food. Brunch was almost here, and he'd eat his fill then, get back to the comfortable, edge-of-pain edge-of-pleasure state he'd become addicted to. He'd felt chunky that morning, but now, even though his pants were constricting his thighs and ass, he felt too-thin again, hollow and in need of filling. His thoughts drifted to cupcakes, to waffles, to his own body, inching outwards with every pastry he put into it. It was a delicious thought. 

But, no, stop. Bucky didn't want to be fat. (Did he?) It was just as bad as being skinny. (Was it?) He just wanted to stuff his face and jerk his wad and that was that. (Right.)

The brunch place was on the Lower East Side, and Bucky and Steve took a taxi, Bucky shifting uncomfortably against the ever-more-painful press of his jean's zipper into his lower belly. Beneath his jackets he could feel his t-shirt riding up, a thin strip of stomach rubbing up against the fleece of his sweatshirt, and he felt swaddled in too many layers, too hot, and so fucking hungry he could've eaten Steve. (Happily.)

Sam gave them both a big hug, led them to a booth in the back and said, “Dude, it's all-you-can-drink mimosas! I'm on my second already, you two better catch up.”

Bucky was looking around. “Menus?”

“No menu,” said Sam. “Didn't Steve say? It's an all-you-can-eat buffet, but, like, fancy-style, none of that nasty gravy that's been sitting out all morning, no rubbery waffles or soggy pancakes. No, this food is fresh. Three mimosas, ma'am, and keep 'em coming.”

Two hours later, Sam and Bucky were drunk as skunks and even Steve was a little tipsy. Bucky was picking away at his fifth (sixth?) plate of food, trying to finish his umpteenth slice of bacon-latticed cheddar quiche, the most heavenly blend of cream, butter and eggs he'd ever sampled. He still had half a cream cheese danish to see to, as well, and a pile of creamed beef and hashbrowns, and he'd lapsed into focused silence while Steve and Sam cackled and chatted and argued about whether Clint and Natasha had ever “done the deed.”

“Swear to god, they're just friends,” Steve said, and Sam snorted.

“Yeah, uh-huh, just friends,” he said. “When's the last time 'just friends' spent every waking minute together?”

“Well, me and Bucky,” Steve said.

After a long silence, Sam said, “Another round?”

“Why not,” Steve said, and elbowed Bucky in the side. “What do you say?”

Bucky spoke triumphantly around his last breathless mouthful. “Another round! Think I want another – uurrrp – biscuit, too.”

“Damn, soldier,” Sam said, eyebrows shooting to his browline. “You can really put it away.”

“Thanks,” Bucky said, and hoisted himself to his feet, trundled back to the buffet. When he came back with his biscuit (and, hell, a couple sausage links, too), he eased back into the booth with a grunt of discomfort. Jesus, these pants were tight. He sucked in a shallow breath, let it out, reached below the table and patted his belly consolingly before moving his hand downward to try and surreptitiously flick open the button. He heaved another painful breath, and all of a sudden, before he even touched his fly, the pressure eased and he heard a faint, metallic ping! as his button popped off and fell to the floor. Immediately his swollen belly moved forward like a happy cat stretching out, gently pushing down the zipper. Flushing, he tugged his sweatshirt down even farther, praying it would cover the evidence, and goddamn this was embarrassing.

It was also relieving to let his stomach free. He took a grateful munch of his biscuit.

 

“Where'd Steve go?” he asked thickly, looking around.

“Little boy's room,” Sam said, and leaned forward as Bucky took another bite of the biscuit and began moving it around slowly in his mouth, not ready to swallow just yet. “Look, Bucky, I want you to level with me, okay?”

“Uh... okay?”

“Are you doing this for him?”

“Excuse me?” Bucky said, brow crinkling. “Am I doing – urrp, scuse me – what? For who?”

Sam leaned back suddenly, a flush rising to his dark cheeks. “Never mind.”

“Never mind what?” Bucky said. He tucked a sausage link into his cheek. 

“No, nothing,” Sam said. “Are you happy, Barnes?”

“Sam, what are you – hic! – what're you talking about?”

“Just trying to check in with you,” Sam said. “Man-to-man. Dude-to-dude. Whatever. C'mon, just answer the question.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, and found himself smiling. “I am happy.”

“Good,” Sam said, a grin breaking across his face. He sucked up more mimosa through his straw. “Jesus, you two... you were fuckin' made for each other, you know that?”

“Who?” Bucky said, blushing, but at that moment, Steve came back from the bathroom, smiling because he saw his friends smiling. God, he was such a sweetie. (Sweetie? Yes.)

“Budge over,” Steve said.

“Can't,” Bucky said, chewing sausage. “Too full.”

Steve swallowed, licked his lips. “So stop eating.”

“Can't,” Bucky said, chewing biscuit. “Too hungry.”

“You're a complicated man, Buck.”

“Don't I know it,” Bucky said, and patted his stomach, wincing.

+

Bucky still had one remaining pair of jeans, thank goodness, though they were no looser than the pair with the lost button. He jerry-rigged a rubber-band fly-fix, and wore his longest t-shirts to hide it, though his longest t-shirts were a lot shorter than he remembered, so when he wore the jeans he ended up wearing untucked button-ups more often than not. He'd inherited most of them from Steve, but even these were quite snug, the buttons straining unless he shifted the fabric to settle in a certain way: hiked up above his hips a little, wrinkling under his pecs and then sloping out down his rounding belly. Then, at least, the buttons didn't gap until he sat down, at which point little peeks of stomach showed through. So he wore a white t-shirt underneath his button-ups at all time, but it rode up and constantly had to be tugged down, so, basically, clothes were stupid and he worshipped at the altar of sweatpants. 

But even his sweatpants were no longer as comfortable as they had been. He found himself picking wedgies more often, found himself rolling down the waistband so it didn't leave red marks on his pale skin, the thick fabric bunching around his thighs and dick. It was fucking annoying, to say the least, but it was also kind of a turn-on, and, weirdly, he found himself wishing Steve would mention it. Wishing Steve would make a comment about his too-small sweatpants, or how even his sweatshirt was getting snug, or why he rarely wore jeans anymore.

He wanted to hear Steve say something like, “Getting chunky, there, Buck.”

This scenario started to figure into his fantasies more and more often, no matter how much he tried to suppress it. He'd jerk off to the idea of Steve calling him tubby, or telling him he had to eat less, or poking him in the gut. He knew it was wrong but he couldn't stop fantasizing about it.

And the thing was, he was pretty sure Steve was kind of into bigger guys. He'd seen it. He had evidence, though no proof. And he knew Steve wasn't blind, knew Steve could see the weight he was gaining; he watched Steve eye him when he thought he wasn't looking, watched Steve watch him suck powdered sugar off his fingers after a donut snack, watched Steve lick his lips when Bucky chugged a pint of chocolate milk while they watched TV. 

“Stevie,” Bucky said, gingerly patting his gurgling stomach. “Will you get me some Oreos? I'm too full to get up.”

“Sure,” Steve said immediately – didn't comment at the contradiction in Bucky's words, didn't say, if you're so full maybe you don't need dessert, didn't bat an eyelash. Just trotted into the kitchen and came back with the entire box. 

“Stevie,” Bucky said. “My stomach is killing me. Will you get me the hot water bottle and a box of Cheez-its?”

“Of course,” Steve said.

“Burrrrp,” Bucky said. “Hic. Urrrp.” He let out a long, low fart.

“I was thinking Thai tonight,” Steve said. “Extra beef satay, right?”

Subconsciously (or consciously?) Bucky was courting Steve's attention. The question he couldn't quite bring himself to ask was: was he courting Steve? Steve, his best friend, his rock, his life? Steve, the star of his deepest and most marvelous sexual fantasies?

And if so: what a way to go about it. Jesus. Was nothing in his life normal?

+

“I'm an abnormal freak,” Steve said.

“You're not a freak,” Nat said dismissively. “People like what they like. You like big guys; I like my lover to pretend he's my toy poodle. I put bows on his neck and he curls up in my lap and I pet him while he goes down on me.”

Unbidden, Clint in a bow came to mind. Steve shook his head to rid it of the image. “You and Sam are the only ones who know I like guys, in the first place,” he said. “That's bad enough. But this?”

“Steve, not subscribing to media-dictated societal beauty standards doesn't make you a freak,” she said. “Neither does being bi. Neither does being in love with your chubby best friend.”

Steve's face got so hot he thought his head might fall off. “I'm not – who said anything about – why would you --”

“Oh, please,” Nat said. “If you're confessing your sexual preferences to me, you might as well be specific. Everyone knows you've got it bad for Bucky Barnes.”

Steve buried his face in his hands.

“Not like I'd ever tell him,” Nat said, rubbing Steve's back mechanically, like it was something she'd seen on TV. “But you should.”

“I can't,” Steve said. “I'd never risk our friendship like that. He doesn't feel the same way.”

“I think you're wrong,” said Nat, and sighed, shrugging. “Suit yourself. At least tell him to get some new pants, would you?”

But Steve didn't, because Steve was a sick fuck who liked Bucky's pants just the way they were. Sinful. 

Bucky hadn't worn his jeans in about two weeks, by Steve's count, which probably meant he'd fully outgrown them after weeks of hiding his straining, rubber-banded fly. It was all sweatpants all the time, the same three pairs that Bucky rotated with his pile of ever-tightening t-shirts. His belly was unmistakable, now, the start of what threatened to turn into a real gut. At first it had been noticeable but unremarkable, just a soft mound beneath the fabric of his t-shirt, but now it stretched those t-shirts to their breaking point, little holes starting at the stressed seams, wrinkling under his pudgy pecs, the hemlines climbing to show the round swell of his underbelly that was striped here-and-there with what Steve thought might be stretch marks. He longed to get an up-close look to test his theory. 

It wasn't just Bucky's stomach that was growing, though. His chin, always soft, had begun to truly double when he looked down even slightly, and his cheeks were rounder, his neck bigger, his arms softer. His back was wider, his lovehandles two obvious swells of flesh, and through the tight fabric of his t-shirts Steve saw that he was getting a little roll of a spare tire. His ass was wider, too, and was getting rounder and jigglier by the day, the waistband of the sweatpants pulled down and hinting at the curve of his asscrack. When he sat, his thighs were starting to really spread across his seat, and Steve would have paid money to see them in a pair of boxer briefs. 

Did Bucky not notice? Was he in denial? Or, like Steve, did he enjoy it? He never mentioned it, not directly, anyway, but he touched his stomach a lot, thumbing at his belly button or rubbing slow, soothing circles after he ate. Sometimes he'd stand in front of the fridge just patting it as he surveyed his snack options, pat, pat, pat, and though it looked so firm it jiggled gently beneath his palm.

“I want pizza for dinner,” Bucky announced one night. “I want a meat lover's pizza, and a pound of buffalo wings. Extra blue cheese sauce.”

They ate in front of the TV, as they often did, and Steve watched Bucky more than the movie, as he often did. Watched Bucky lower heavy, cheesy slices into his mouth, licking at the grease that dripped down his chin, catching the slide of cheese and hamburger before it fell into his lap, dunking crusts into blue cheese. The pile of bones from his spicy fried chicken grew and grew, and his breath got shorter and shorter. Steve was familiar with the sound, by now: Bucky was getting full. Little grunts and burps interrupted his chewing, but otherwise he was absolutely single-minded. In the light from the TV, his lips and fingers shone with sauce, and when he began patting his bloated stomach carefully, Steve saw fingerprints dancing around his stretched belly button. He wished they were his fingerprints. 

Bucky shoved the last crust into his mouth and let out a particularly wet, tortured-sounding burp, then ran his flesh finger around the tub of blue cheese to lick up the last dregs. His stomach looked at least an inch rounder than when he'd started, and he huffed, wriggling tiredly on the couch, pulling at the pinching waistband of his sweatpants. The elastic was stretched to the max. “Oof,” he commented, drumming his fingers on the dome of his gut in its stretched, stained t-shirt.

“You want some ice cream?” Steve said. “I got peanut butter swirl...”

“Sounds good,” Bucky said, and his face tensed with pain before he let out another gurgling belch. “Ah. Ow. Fuck.” He wedged his thumbs in his waistband, trying to pull himself more room, but it didn't budge, and Steve saw he had to lean back to do it, to get his gut lift enough to give him access. There were angry red lines on his hips where they'd spilled out from under his t-shirt. 

Steve went to the kitchen and spooned out two bowls of ice cream: one for himself, about a scoops worth, and one for Bucky. Bucky's was nearly an entire pint, packed into the bowl and rising above the edges, and after a moment, Steve added a tower of whipped cream. After a moment's hesitation, he grabbed a pair of scissors, too.

“Thanks,” Bucky said, reaching for the ice cream, but Steve set it down in fronnt of him, on the coffee table. “Urrgh,” Bucky panted as he started to push himself forward to reach for it, leaning awkwardly around his packed belly, but Steve said, “Wait.”

“Wait?” Bucky repeated.

“I, uh, I have an idea,” Steve said hurriedly. “To make you, um, to make you more comfortable. Here, raise your arms and hold still.”

Obediently, looking confused but intrigued, Bucky raised his arms, and Steve stepped forward with the scissors. Snip, snip, he cut two slits in the sides of Bucky's sweatpants; cut right through the elastic and watched as Bucky's chunky sides settled happily into the extra space.

“Oh,” Bucky said. “Wow. God, Steve, you're a genius.”

“You might want to think about some new pants,” Steve said, courageously. 

Bucky bit his lip, then said, “Yeah? You think so?”

“We could go shopping,” Steve said. “Tomorrow. Um, in a store. I could help you, um, see what fits.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, knuckling his belly. “Yeah, that'd be great, man. Thanks.”

Steve nodded, then handed Bucky the bowl of ice cream, watched him settle back against the cushions with the bowl pressed to his chest, spooning huge mounds of ice cream, his lips pink and sticky, his belly looking even bigger in the slit sweatpants. He had a fine sheen of sweat on his brow, and Steve could hear his over-stuffed stomach babbling like a brook as it tried to digest this new challenge. His chin sank into a mild double every time he took a bite. 

“Hhurrp,” Bucky said, and stopped eating for a minute to knead his gut with both hands, not even trying to hide the way he pressed his fingers into his distended skin then soothed it with soft, tickling fingertips. His shirt rode up further, pudgy round skin bare to Steve's hungry eye, searching out those stretchmarks he knew were there, silvery in the low light. “S'good ice cream,” he wheezed, and glommed another spoonful. 

“I know,” Steve said. “I bought it for you.”

+

Bucky was having trouble sleeping. 

For one thing, he was so full it felt like a baby elephant was lying on his chest, but that was par for the course, and in fact usually helped him drift off after he got off. Familiar, too, were the agonized noises issuing from his stomach, the gassy roils and liquidy gurgles. He lay half-propped up on pillows, his hands cradling his stomach, naked as the day he was born because nothing was comfortable enough to sleep in anymore. All his underwear, even, was too tight, his legs pinched and bulging, his back and sides rolling over the waistband and aching from its grip. 

Everything was too tight, and Steve had acknowledged it. Had said he needed new pants. Had offered to help him shop. It was like all of Bucky's fantasies come to real life.

That was the problem, though. It was real life.

Bucky knew he'd put on weight – he'd have to be stupid not to admit that. He could feel it, could feel the way his chin encountered some resistance when he looked down, could feel the way his ass jiggled as he walked, the way his back folded when he sat, the way his belly was pushing further outwards every day, with every bite. Even his watch was beginning to bite into his wrist.

He knew it – but he hadn't seen it.

He looked down at the bulge of his stomach, at the pink striations like lightning up his sides. He saw it like this, sure, but he hadn't seen it in the mirror, had no real concept of how he looked, these days. Handsome, of course – he still saw his face and shoulders, and his hair was shinier than ever – but definitely, undeniably thicker. 

He sighed, wincing as the motion pushed at his already pushed-out belly, and tucked a finger into his deepening belly button. All he could do now was pray to God he didn't pop a boner tomorrow. 

+

“Here,” Steve said, red-faced, handing him a pile of black jeans. “Go see how these fit. Call me if you need me.”

Dutifully, Bucky traipsed to the dressing room, stood while the assistant counted his items and handed him a tag for 6. He took a deep breath before opening the door of the mirrored room, then pushed his way inside.

He was wearing the newly-slit sweatpants tucked into combat boots and a black sweatshirt under his puffy jacket, so the first thing he noticed was his face. It had filled out. Unmistakably. His chin rested in a little poof of chub that deepened when he moved his head around, and his stubbled cheeks looked like someone had pumped air into them. But all in all, it wasn't bad; he didn't look too different, really, just, well, chubbier. His long, shiny hair camouflaged the softness of his jaw, and emphasized his still-phenomenal cheekbones. All right. He could work with this.

Next, he shucked off his jacket. He had to admit, he was a little surprised to see how tight his sweatshirt was. He'd struggled into it that morning, so he'd known it wasn't exactly loose, but it really hugged his chunky sides and molded to his rounded belly. And Jesus, was he round! He framed his belly with his hands in disbelief, bounced it up and down, watched the hem of his sweatshirt move upwards over his hips, which were spilling out of the slits Steve had cut. He tugged the sweatshirt down, swallowed, then moved to stand in profile. His stomach jutted outwards from beneath his pecs, pushing at the fabric of his sweatshirt and pulling the kangaroo pocket tight. It stood out a few inches over the waistband of his shredded pants, and his ass looked pretty round, too, straining the seat of his sweats. He bounced on his toes, watched his ass and belly bounce in tandem. He twisted so he could check out his back view, his wider ass, wider back, wider shoulders. 

Then he worked his way out of his sweatshirt and sweatpants, and stood in his stained white t-shirt and bunched-up too-tight boxers. The t-shirt emphasized the roundness of his belly, how it rounded out his sides and sloped into rolls on his back. His belly button looked wide and his pecs looked pudgy. His thighs were chunky and pale and his ass was starting to dimple, and when he took off his t-shirt, he saw how the stretchmarks looked like someone had raked claws around the side curves of his gut. There was a pink one starting on his right pec, too, and he touched it curiously. It was very soft. 

He heaved a breath, watched how his stomach rose and fell, his chin doubling and undoubling. He patted his cheeks. Jiggled his ass. Prodded his round tummy. Slapped his doughy thighs. 

And really, he wasn't that big. The initial shock of seeing four months of pure gluttony had worn off, and he realized while yes, his belly was getting pretty round, it wasn't really that big. His ass was jiggly, sure, but not wildly so. His pecs were getting flabby but they weren't, like, B-cups or anything. He had rolls on his back where his lovehandles swelled out, but his belly was firm and solid, and his double chin wasn't really a double chin, just a kind of chin-and-a-half. 

He wasn't nearly as fat as he'd been fearing.

(And he wasn't nearly as fat as he'd been hoping.)

In fact, he wasn't even fat – chunky, sure. Thick, yes. Chubby, maybe. Round, definitely. But fat? No. He had a ways to go before he could claim that title. 

With a smack to his belly, he bent to start trying on some jeans. And oh, when he bent over like that, his belly got even rounder. 

The first pair he tried on was still patently too small. He pulled his white t-shirt back on and tugged them under his gut, and while he could button them, they dug into his sides and belly. He was about to take them off and try on another pair, when he had a sudden, ill-advised, excited urge that he simply could not ignore. 

“Steve!” he hollered.

Seconds later, Steve's deep voice, tentative. “Buck?” 

“Will you tell me what you think?” he said, and opened the door.

Steve's mouth dropped open, then shut. He swallowed. Bucky said nothing, so embarrassed, so turned-on, waiting. Finally Steve cleared his throat and said, “Uh, I think they're a little small.”

“They're comfy, though,” Bucky said, which was a patented lie.

“Well,” Steve said, clearly struggling with himself. “I still think you should try the next size up. Just to be sure.”

“Okay,” Bucky said. “Thanks Steve.”

“Of course.” Steve was studiously looking right at Bucky's face, avoiding the sight of his squeezed sides and protruding belly. Bucky had, indeed, popped a boner, but the jeans were so tight it was kept down, for the moment. 

He backed away into the dressing room and peeled off the tight pants, his heart pounding. God, he was so turned on. Why had he done that? He'd shamed himself in front of his best friend (and sexual fantasy) and now he had this raging boner he didn't know what to do with. He heard Steve walking away, heard the shop assistant helping someone else, and, hardly believing his own daring, he took himself into his hand. He had to, or else he might explode. 

He jacked off into his hat, balled his hat up and put it into his pocket, and bought the biggest, loosest pair of jeans in the pile without consulting Steve again. He was overwhelmed with shame; shame, and thrill. 

What did Steve feel?

“Wanna stop for lunch?” Bucky said. “That sub place?”

“Do you,” Steve said, then stopped, started again. “Do you need some new shirts, too, maybe?”

“After lunch,” Bucky said, patting his belly beneath the tight sweatshirt. “I'm starving.”

He had a cheesesteak and an order of french fries with mayonnaise, then went back up for an eggplant parmesan while Steve was finishing his Italian. Even for him this was a lot, knowing he still had to walk around – two footlong subs was nothing to joke about, and by the end he was wishing he'd changed into his new jeans, because his sweatpants were biting into his sensitive skin. 

But he was trying to get a rise out of Steve. Trying to test a theory.

“Fuck,” Bucky said, balling up the wrappers and aiming them listlessly at the trash can. He rubbed the sides of his belly, blew out a breath with difficulty and slurped the last of his extra-large root beer, trying to work up a few pressure-relieving burps, but to his embarrassment he let out a honking fart, instead. Several heads turned to look, and he and Steve both turned beet-red. Not exactly what he'd intended.

“Sorry,” he said. “Urgh, I'm just so fucking full. Phew.”

“You still up for more shopping?” Steve said doubtfully.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky said. “Just give me a minute. Hurp. Mmm.” He sipped air, waiting for the worst of the tight pain to ease up, stroking his tummy and watching Steve watch the movement of his hands. Evidence – but not proof. After a while he said, “Okay, let's go.”

They walked slowly down the snowy street, Bucky sweaty and overheated, Steve pink-cheeked and fresh. Bucky could hear the chant of his own harsh breathing, still not quite caught since lunch, but Steve wasn't looking at him. Steve was eyeing a buxom woman in a tight white coat and a cascade of black curls halo-ing her head. Bucky gritted his teeth. He watched Steve check out a thick-bodied hipster with perfect teeth and a tight flannel jacket. Jesus, Steve. Horny, or something?

“Hold up,” Bucky said, slowing. “I'm gonna get some fried dough.”

“Seriously?” Steve blurted. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said, with wide, innocent eyes. “Why?”

“Nothing,” Steve backtracked, digging into his pocket for his wallet. “Um, here, I'll get it. What do you want?”

“Butter and powdered sugar,” Bucky said. “And a scoop of ice cream. Yum. Thanks, Steve.”

He ate as they walked, but by the time they got to the store, he was panting nauseously and had powdered sugar snowed all down the dark jacket that was stretched across his tender tummy. 

“Gotta, urp, sit down,” he panted, and ended up sprawled in a chair outside the dressing room while Steve paraded a series of shirts before him. It was kind of fun, actually, like one of those fashion reality shows – though he'd never seen a reality show where the main contestant was a sugary, sweaty, swollen mess. He wiped his forehead and rubbed his stomach hopelessly with an open palm, feeling how full he was, how tight. 

“This would like nice with your eyes,” Steve said, holding up a blue button up. “How about a set of these?” holding up a stack of plain black v-neck tees. “Hey, this is a cool style – check out the collar.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky said, “yup, oooh, those're nice, yeah, okay.”

“You've got to try them on,” Steve cajoled. “Otherwise we won't know if they fit.”

“Hup,” Bucky grunted, pushing himself to his feet, and unwillingly trudged into a dressing room. He tried on one button-up, and one t-shirt, just to get the size right, and like his pants he went with the looser options. It would be nice to have some shirts that were long enough, and the button-up didn't gape or strain when he bent over. He almost went back out, ready, but then he was taken over by the same urge that had struck him in the pants store. He pulled on one of the smaller button-ups, the striped one that pulled taut across his swollen belly, the distorted stripes bending around his gut and showing just how full he'd made himself. “Steve,” he called, “come look.”

Steve did look. And looked, and looked. 

“Well?” Bucky prompted finally.

And Steve – Steve said, “Yeah, Buck. That one's great.”

“Great?” Bucky repeated, floored.

“Looks good on you,” Steve said, and raised his eyes to meet Bucky's. His face turned pink but he stood his ground. “I like it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, his voice husky. 

“Okay, then,” Bucky said.

“Okay,” said Steve. They blinked at each other, and Bucky went back into the dressing room.

Steve was A) Blind, and couldn't see how tight the shirt was, B) Trying to teach Bucky some kind of lesson, C) Didn't want to hurt Bucky's feelings, or, option D) – He really did like it. 

Bucky kind of, maybe, sort of, believed it might be option D.

But he needed proof. Solid, incontrovertible proof, that Steve – what? Say it, Barnes.

Liked him. Wanted him. Was turned on by him. 

This wasn't something they could talk about lightly. This was the most important relationship he had, would ever have, and he had to tread carefully, had to treat it like the fragile, precious, perfect thing it was. 

Steve had to make the first move. But that didn't mean Bucky couldn't help him along. 

He bought the tight shirt, along with several button-ups that actually fit, plus the loose black v-necks, and he let Steve carry the bags as they trudged home, Bucky still short of breath and stuffed full. 

Home, he stripped out of his tight clothes, threw his jizz-covered hat into the laundry bin, and stretched out on top of his covers to digest, trying to soothe his belly between painful hiccups. 

“I'm gonna – hic! – break you, Rogers,” he said to himself. “If it's the last thing I do.”

+

“Dude,” Sam hissed. “Bucky is seriously packing it on.”

“Is he?” Steve said. “I, uh, I hadn't --”

“Don't you play coy with me, Rogers,” Sam said. They were on the couch at Sam's apartment, and Bucky was in the kitchen, ostensibly doing dishes, but probably finishing up the pan of brownies Sam had made, if the lack of running water and clanking was anything to go by. 

“Okay, yeah, he's gained some weight,” Steve said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But, I don't know, he's happy, Sam.”

“Oh, I know he's happy. It's not a judgment, Cap, just an observation. What's your take?”

“My take?”

“You heard me. Why's your boy blowing up like a Goodyear blimp?”

“For one thing, he's not my boy,” Steve said, and raised his voice over Sam's snorts, “and for another --” 

“What're you two fighting about?” Bucky said, coming back into the living room. He had two beers in his hands, one of which he handed off to Sam.

“You've got a little chocolate, right there,” Sam said, and nodded as Bucky wiped his lips. “Yup, got it.”

Bucky sat down heavily in an armchair, sighing a little as he got comfortable. He was in a plain black v-neck that had no slimming effect whatsoever, and his belly – packed tight with more pad thai than Sam had ever seen (or wanted to see) anybody eat – pulled at the soft material, his navel a wide indent, his waistband hidden by the swell of gut. He held a beer with his flesh hand, and with his metal fingers he rubbed small circles in the firm skin around his belly button, his t-shirt riding up on one side and showing a fleshy swell of hip. He gulped at the beer, let out a cheery belch, and sighed again. 

“Not fighting,” Steve said, glaring at Sam.

“Hope you finished those brownies,” Sam said. “I hate to have 'em around.”

Bucky's face got a little pink but he said, “Yeah, I did.”

“Good,” Sam said, “good.”

“I didn't get to all the dishes,” Bucky confessed.

“No worries,” Sam said. 

Bucky took a long swig of beer and closed his eyes, pressing an open palm gently into one side of his belly, like he was coaxing forth the burp that erupted from his lips. “Scuse me,” he murmured, eyes still closed.

Sam looked at Steve, one eyebrow raised. Steve was cherry red. 

“Bucky,” Sam said, “did you try one of those Easter cookies my mom sent?”

“No,” Bucky said, opening one eye.

“Here,” Sam said, staring at Steve, “let me get you one.”

He came back with five. Five enormous sugar cookies with buttercream icing.

“Wow,” Bucky said, eyeing the plate. “These look like little cakes. Steve, you want one?”

“No, no, you have them,” Steve said automatically, then shot Sam a pre-emptive scowl.

“I'm really full,” Bucky said, but he took the plate onto his knee and bit down with no hesitation. “Fuck, these are good.” 

The first one disappeared quickly, and the second, and the third, but the fourth and fifth were slow-going. Bucky would take a bite, breathe for a while, chew, breathe, then swallow. A collection of sugary crumbs were collecting on the crest of his stomach, and he kept brushing them off, then using the movement as an excuse to pet his belly, like it was an anxious pet that had to be soothed. 

All the while, they were chatting, bantering back and forth about this and that, but Steve was watching Bucky and Sam was watching Steve, and Bucky was watching his stomach bloat impossibly bigger. 

“Hoo boy,” he said, blowing out a sugary breath, when the last cookie was done. His head was slumped into his neck, and his double chin was prominently displayed beneath his long hair. 

“You want another beer?” Sam said, wickedly.

“Huumrp,” Bucky said. “Ugh. Yeah, thanks.”

Sam went to fetch it, and Bucky arched his back a little, his stuffed belly mounding before him, a teeny slice of underbelly showing the red circle his jeans button had left in his skin. 

“Holy shit,” Bucky said. “Am I full.” He let out a long, groaning breath and palmed the place his stomach had started to shelve out, big enough for a cookie to rest comfortably. 

“You ate a lot,” Steve said.

“So much,” Bucky agreed. “I did not need those cookies. Phew. Oh, man. My poor belly.”

“It must hurt,” Steve said. He sounded almost as breathless as Bucky.

“Ugh, it does. I packed it so full I don't even have room to breathe. Christ.” Bucky shook with a suppressed hiccup. “Oh god. Steve.”

Steve was leaning forward on the couch, now, his knee almost touching Bucky's. “I can see,” he said. “I can see how full you are.”

“Yeah?” Bucky said. “You can?”

Sam came back with the beer, and Steve leaned casually away.

“Thanks,” Bucky said, and started chugging. 

+

That night, Bucky flopped down drunkenly on their couch as soon as he walked in the door. He lay back with a hand flung over his eyes, his belly his highest elevation point, and Steve watched it jerk and quake with each shallow breath.

“Oh no,” he said, and went over to pat Bucky's knee. “Get up, or you'll fall asleep here and be sore in the morning.”

“Leave me,” Bucky said, his voice muffled. 

“Never,” Steve said, lightly, but Bucky took his arm off his eyes and looked at Steve with big blue eyes. 

“Promise?”

“Of course,” Steve said, trying to laugh. “Now come on, get up, let's get you to bed.”

Bucky let Steve pull him up, and trudged after him like a docile lamb until they were standing outside Bucky's bedroom.

“Night, Buck,” Steve said, after a moment.

“I won't be able to sleep,” Bucky whined, like a kid, and Steve couldn't help but grin. 

“Sure you will,” he said, and patted Bucky's belly.

He did it automatically, just a friendly gesture, but as his hand was on its way the gesture changed, somehow – it became awkward, became charged – and by the time his hand had landed on Bucky's firm, warm gut, by the time he felt the taut skin jiggle and give, by the time Bucky had emitted a startled hiccup, Steve was frozen like a deer in headlights.

Frozen with his hand on the side of Bucky's belly. Not a pat, anymore. A caress.

Steve snatched his hand away, suddenly breathing hard, but Bucky caught his hand in his own with a quickness Steve forgot he still possessed.

“That feels good,” Bucky said, voice low. “Keep going.”

“Like this?” Steve said quietly, his hand finding its way back to Bucky's stomach. He began to rub smooth, firm, loving circles as if he'd done it a thousand times before, feeling how warm Bucky was, how full, how tight his gut was stuffed but how soft it was, too. He watched his own hand, listened to Bucky start to breathe a little faster, watched out his t-shirt pulled up at each pass of Steve's palm and gave him a little glimpse of the swollen skin beneath. Without quite realizing it, his other hand joined in, and Bucky staggered back to lean against his doorframe, eyes fluttering closed as Steve worked his hands over that heavy belly, feeling the plump undercurve of it, feeling how stretched it was, feeling it gurgle and rumble, and Bucky tilted his head back, exposing his pudgy neck, and all of a sudden as if in a dream Steve was leaning forward and taking a soft, sucking mouthful of that salty skin.

Bucky let out a gasp unlike anything Steve had heard before. It was the most beautiful sound in the world. He pressed closer, kissed his way up Bucky's neck until he found his lips, and then Bucky's hands came up and pulled him close around the waist, and he could feel Bucky's swollen tummy pressing into his flat one, could feel Bucky's metal hand raking across the sensitive skin of his neck, Bucky's lips and hair and fingers and his heavy breath, still so full, his belly so round Steve had to lean a little to get at Bucky's mouth, and it was almost too much to handle. 

“Bucky,” Steve said, breaking away for a second, and even to his own ears his voice sounded absolutely wrecked. “Buck, are you --”

“Yes,” Bucky said, “Whatever your question is, the answer is yes. Jesus, Stevie, don't stop kissin' me!”

So Steve didn't. He grabbed two lush handfuls of Bucky's ass and hoisted him up like he weighed nothing, and carried him into his room, threw him down on the bed amidst the candy wrappers and cans of whipped cream and – 

“What the,” he said, but Bucky mewled and pulled at him and he forgot everything but the hot feel of Bucky's beautiful skin against his. Finally, finally, he got to strip off Bucky's shirt and get a look at his gorgeous gut, so miraculously round, a trail of dark hair leading up from his waistband (already too tight) and curving upwards, pink and silver-white marks zigzagging across the surface. Steve bent to taste them, laved them with his tongue, then sat up to pull off his own shirt and climb out of his pants. He undid Bucky's belt and peeled his jeans off of him slowly, savoring the feel of Bucky's plump thighs quaking beneath his hands as his hips jolted upwards, his thick, beautiful cock just as plump as the rest of him, and just like the rest of him, flushed a luscious rosy pink. He closed his lips around the head and Bucky let out a moan. 

Steve tried to remind himself to go slow, but he couldn't, not after dreaming about this for so long, and he gripped Bucky's fat ass and yanked him closer, swallowing down the whole length of him with ease, sucking hard and coming off with a pop, tonguing the shaft and Bucky's balls and working him with one hand as he slurped and sucked in earnest. With the other, he groped Bucky's belly, gripped his lovehandles, left bruises on his thighs.

Bucky came with a cry of pure pleasure, arching his back as Steve milked his cock, then going completely limp, his tummy quivering as he tried to catch his breath, his fingers still curled in Steve's short hair. Steve licked cum off his lips and watched through heavy-lidded eyes as Bucky struggled to pull himself back together. He'd come apart under Steve's mouth. It was the strongest Steve had ever felt.

His own cock was red and leaking against his stomach, and he'd just reached down to touch himself when Bucky said, “Sit on my face, Stevie. C'mon. Fuck my mouth.”

Steve clambered eagerly to his knees, and as he crawled forward to do Bucky's bidding, his hand landed on a full can of whipped cream. Bucky saw his intention and grinned, then closed his eyes and opened his mouth wide. Steve squirted an enormous tower of whipped cream into that pink cavern, then slowly lowered his dick in after it.

He came harder than he ever had in his life. 

+

“Bucky's getting fat,” Natasha said with her usual bluntness. She lowered her sunglasses to watch Bucky clomp away through the tables at the outdoor cafe where they were having lunch. It was April, and warm. “No wonder you finally manned up enough to tap that.”

Steve choked on his lemonade. “That's not why I --”

“I don't really see the appeal,” she said. “I had Clint eat a whole cake the other night while I pegged him, and sure, I came, but it wasn't life-changing or anything, and the poor guy almost puked.”

“So you are? You are fucking Clint?”

Natasha gave him an impatient stare. “Of course I'm fucking Clint. Hey, here's the waiter – should we surprise Bucky with another dessert?”

“Nat,” Steve said, but he was grinning.

“What's the biggest, chocolatiest thing you've got?” she asked the waiter. “We'll take that.”

“You do realize ordering food for Bucky is kind of like taking a direct part in our sex life, right?” Steve said. 

“I hate to be left out,” Natasha said, flipping her hair. It sparked copper in the sun. “Besides, I want to see if he can fit any more in there. He ate practically the whole menu.”

“It's a small menu,” Steve said, but his tone was proud. 

“How much has he gained?” she asked, as he came back towards them.

“No idea,” Steve said. “Fifty pounds?”

“More,” Nat decided. “I think he's gained ten just since I last saw him.”

They both quieted, watching him walk, one hand palming the side of his belly like second nature. He was still wearing the black v-neck, though it was decidedly too small now, showing off his thick lovehandles and pulled tight over his pudgy chest, riding up as he walked so anyone could see the way his round gut hovered over his un-belted jeans. The jeans were safety-pinned, and the tight waistband had folded under the weight of his sides and belly and back fat. His face was rounder, cherubic, and his chin-and-a-half had become a full twin chin, now. He saw them watching him and smiled involuntarily, brushing back a lock of hair with his metal hand, which was the only piece of his body that was still slim. 

“What're you two looking at?” he said, gripping the arms of his chair and lowering himself down with a huff of breath. 

“You,” Steve said. Bucky ducked his head, grinning. 

“There's a lot of you to see,” Natasha said.

Bucky laughed, resting his metal hand on top of his stomach and tapping his fingers.

“You look good,” Nat admitted, just as the waiter came by with an enormous piece of molten lava cake oozing under a pile of vanilla ice cream. 

“Surprise,” said Steve. 

“Is this for me?” Bucky said disbelievingly. He was already picking up the spoon. “I just had all that cheesecake.” He took a gooey bite. “Ohhh that's good. Steve, you're gonna kill me with kindness.”

“It was all Nat,” Steve said, hands up.

Bucky took another enormous bite, chocolate clinging to his lips. He dabbed them with a napkin and dove back in, grunting a little with fullness. One hand stayed under the table, tucked beneath his belly, kneading it carefully as he demolished the cake bite by wheezy bite. “Full,” he commented when he was done, and leaned back heavily in his chair, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand and then bouncing a gentle fist off his stuffed gut. “Uuurchp,” he belched. “Wow. That was like a – eurrp – a chocolate – bomb.”

“Only kinds of bombs you'll ever have to face again,” Steve said. 

“Here's to – that,” Bucky said, short of breath.

+

Bucky had spent so long under someone's command, and Steve had spent so long as a commander, it felt only natural that their roles should be reversed in the bedroom. Bucky took great delight in ordering Steve around, and Steve loved waiting on Bucky hand and foot. 

He fed Bucky entire gallons of ice cream, rubbing his swollen stomach and petting his damp face. He bought him pizza, cooked him pasta, baked him pies. He massaged his feet and spread moisturizer across his hot skin. 

“Steve,” Bucky panted. “Keep going.”

“You sure?” Steve said, pausing with a spoonful of Nutella hovering near Bucky's lips. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said, “yeah, do it.”

Steve fed him the spoonful, then scraped the jar to get the last dregs of it. 

“More,” Bucky said. 

Steve reached for the gallon of ice cream Bucky had all but finished. It was mostly melted but he spooned the chocolate goo into Bucky's panting mouth. They were on the couch, Bucky slumped back with his legs spread, both his hands gripping his aching stomach where it had plumped out from between the useless flaps of his jeans and was mounding up on his chubby thighs. Steve had a hand on him, too, feeling how he got tighter and tighter and rounder and rounder as he ate more and more. It was an amazing feeling for both of them. 

“God, you're getting heavy,” Steve said, feeling the heft of Bucky's gut in his hand.

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “Heavier by the day. I can feel it. Hicc-urp. Whoo.”

“How much do you think you've gained?”

“Fuck, I don't know,” Bucky said. “Knees hurt, back hurts, tummy hurts... No idea. I was one seventy-five last I checked.”

Steve came home the next day with a scale. He stood with Bucky in their bathroom, Bucky shirtless in skintight boxers, his ass getting as round as his gut but dimpled like a peach. He really was getting fat, Steve thought with surprise. Not just a chunky guy anymore, but truly fat. He had to stand to the side and peer down around his belly to see the numbers on the scale. 

“Two eighty three,” Bucky said. “God damn, Stevie.”

They fucked in the kitchen, Bucky bent over the table with his face in a chocolate cream pie and his heavy belly swinging as Steve took him from behind, reaching forward to grab handfuls of supple skin. 

+

It was a hot summer day when Bucky realized all his fantasies had come true.

He was sitting on Sam's little terrace, looking out at the city and trying to digest the barbecue's worth of food he'd put away, drinking a beer and patting and rubbing at his stuffed gut in movements that were now totally natural. He leaned forward to set his empty bottle on the table in front of him, and felt how he had to spread his legs to do it, how his belly got in the way and made it difficult to breathe; the same problem he had when tying his shoes these days. He shifted in the plastic chair, the arms pressing into his sides a little, and heaved himself into a stand. He had to rock a bit in order to get the momentum, and when he was on his feet he tugged down his t-shirt and reached below his belly to re-do the tight button he'd undone while eating. His gut was starting to hang a little, and it was harder to reach his fly, especially as full as he was. He went through the sliding doors to where Sam and Steve and Nat were in the kitchen, and he felt the rub of his thighs as he walked, felt himself starting to develop the hint of a waddle, his weight swaying him minutely from side to side. 

Fuck, he was full. 

And fat. Jesus, did he feel fat. 

“Hey, babe,” Steve said, his eyes crinkling as Bucky shuffled into the kitchen. He came over to plant a kiss on Bucky's lips, let his thumb drag across his mouth and down his chubby chin. “You need something?”

Bucky pushed into his Steve, his belly between them, warm and full like a loving heart.

“Nope,” he said. “I've got everything I want.”


End file.
